I never meant to come back to Windsor. Just one night, the lawyer said. “Sign the final divorce papers, and you’re free.” Meghan was in Montecito, the kids asleep. I took the red-eye from LAX, mind blank. The plane touched down at five a.m.; the car took me straight to the castle. I told the driver, “Don’t wake anyone.”

Family dinner was quiet. William nodded. Kate forced a smile. My father—King Charles—asked after my health like he was reading a script. I pleaded jet-lag and slipped upstairs to my old room on the top floor. Same Persian rug Mum loved, same photo of William and me on ponies in ’88. I opened the mini-fridge: half a bottle of whisky. Not enough.

I remembered the cellar.

The spiral stone stairs led down into the chill. Motion-sensor lights flickered on, revealing oak barrels stacked like coffins. I walked the narrow aisle, fingertips brushing labels: 1945, 1961, 1982… Then I stopped. A small, unmarked crate sat askew. The lid was ajar.

I pulled it open. No wine. A green leather diary, edges worn, brass clasp rusted. Embossed on the cover in tiny letters: Property of D. Spencer – 1996.

Mum.

I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook as I flicked the clasp—it popped like it had been opened a thousand times. First page:

14/07/1996 – They’re following me 24/7. Paul says there are mics in the car. Charles doesn’t believe me. I’m scared.

I turned pages fast. Ink bled in places. 20/08/1997—eleven days before the crash:

They told me to stay quiet. “For the boys.” But I know. If I die, check the safe-deposit box at Coutts, Strand branch. Code: 3108.

The last page was torn out. A scrap of paper remained, tucked inside: “Trust no one in the Household.”

I sank to the cold stone floor, diary clutched to my chest. Footsteps echoed on the stairs—light but deliberate. I killed my phone’s torch and held my breath.

Another beam swept the room. A man’s voice, low: “It’s here. I’m sure of it.”

I knew that voice. Sir Edward Langley—my father’s private secretary since 1995, the shadow behind the Queen in every official photograph.

I shrank between two barrels. Langley stepped in, torch moving slow. He stopped exactly where I’d been, bent, and picked up something—the brass clasp I’d dropped.

“Harry?” he murmured. “I know you’re here.”

I stayed silent.

He sighed. “That diary isn’t for you. Hand it over, and we’ll forget this happened.”

I gripped it tighter. “You read it?”

“I rewrote it.”

My heart stopped.

Langley advanced; the beam hit my face. “Diana didn’t finish it. I did—to protect the Crown. Publish it, and no one will believe you. You’ll just be the bitter spare out for revenge.”

I asked, voice cracking, “The code—3108. The box. Real?”

He smiled thinly. “Real. But I put it there. For you to find. For you to ruin yourself.”

I charged. Shoved him hard; he crashed into a barrel. The 1945 bottle shattered, wine flooding the floor like blood. I bolted up the stairs, diary under my arm.

The state apartments were lit. William stood there in an overcoat, face pale. “Harry, give it to me.”

“You knew?”

He looked at the diary, then at me. “Dad sent me to fetch it. He… doesn’t want his son to destroy everything.”

I stepped back. “Whose side are you on?”

William was quiet. Then he reached past me—not for the book, but for the side door. He opened it. “Go. Service gate. I’ll say you were gone before I arrived.”

I ran. Through dark corridors, past the rose garden, out the small iron gate into Windsor Great Park.

Behind me, alarms began to wail.

I sat in a rented car, diary on the passenger seat, driving toward London. Coutts opened at nine.

I didn’t know what was in the box. But I knew one thing: once I opened it, there was no way back.

Red light. I stopped. In the rear-view mirror, a black Range Rover—no plates—pulled in behind me.

I smiled for the first time all night. They thought I’d stay quiet.

They were wrong.